


on the nose

by orphan_account



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, New Jersey, Oral Sex, stilted emotional development
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 08:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tim decides to finally act on his crush, but neither he nor Jason are very good at getting the hint. Steph tries to help. It goes adequately.





	on the nose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writemydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writemydreams/gifts).



> for [jaytim secret santa](http://jaytimsecretsanta.tumblr.com), prompt: first date

It doesn't go great the first time.

It’s the night of the annual Wayne Foundation Summer Charity Fundraiser. Timothy Drake-Wayne, philanthropist protégé, is fucking _convivial_ when there’s millions of potential charitable donations on the line. He takes a deep breath, like a swimmer before a dive, and thrusts himself into a gaggle of wealthy prospective donors.

Tim has a cultivated list of conversation topics for nights like these. He's fed up with the skiing in St. Moritz; he much prefers Lech and Zürs. He's taken a tour of Roman Abramovich's new yacht, and it was underwhelming. The Hamptons have absolutely gone to shit.

He's just finishing up a heavily embellished anecdote (that time Bruce got into a physical altercation with a peacock in Dubai) when he looks over at the refreshments table. He sees Dick, dutifully playing the role of Richard Grayson, idiotic heir with a heart of gold — and then, a few feet away, there's _Jason_ , playing the role of "random man seeking free liquor." Tim swiftly excuses himself and heads over.

Jason enjoys telling everyone (mostly Bruce and Dick) that Tim's his favorite member of the family — and, if he's honest with himself, that makes him a little bit happier than it really should. Especially considering the whole attempted murder thing. Maybe it's _because_ of the whole attempted murder thing. God, he's got issues. 

Before talking to Jason and potentially doing something terrible, though, Tim still has a shred of survival instinct. He knows he's got to consult someone wise before he does this. Someone who will give him good advice, who won't lead him astray.

  
  


"Timmy! Get your cute li'l self over here," shouts Jason in a dubious accent — is it meant to be Texan? He saunters up, throws an arm around Tim's shoulders. He looks good tonight, Tim realizes with dismay. Dress shirt, waistcoat, tie slackened just enough for him to pull off handsome rogue. He's literally wearing a false moustache, but Tim's still kind of into it. This is a disaster.

Jason sweeps Tim's hair behind his ear and leans in close. 

"I've been telling people I'm an oil tycoon from El Paso," he whispers, grinning, breath hot against Tim's neck. "These idiots actually buy it. All the rich old ladies love me. What about you? You wanna come visit my massive pipeline?"

Tim downs the remainder of his champagne glass in one gulp. "Maybe if you take me out to dinner first, I might consider it."

He can't tell if he sounds confident and seductive, or like a ridiculous little kid trying to act as though he's confident and seductive. 

But Jason just laughs. "You're just after my spectacular oil fortune," he says, slipping back into the bad Texan accent. "The pretty ones are always gold diggers. I should've known!" He gives Tim's shoulder a squeeze, shoots him a knowing wink, then turns and heads back towards the bar.

  
  


Next time comes sooner than Tim's expecting. He's down in Asbury Park, a few miles south of Gotham, investigating a shady real estate tycoon who's been buying up the town's beachfront property through a shell company. There's potentially a link to last week's murder in downtown Gotham. Tim's got a hunch. He decides to spend a day poring over microfiche in the city records department.

He reads through the police report again and has a thought. It’s not impossible to research, he could definitely look it up online, in a few seconds. Or he could ask Jason, which would really just be another opportunity to talk to Jason. Tim’s social skills are kind of a non-starter.

Hating himself, he walks down the hallway to an empty records room and puts his earpiece in.

"Boop," says Jason's voice.

Tim sighs. “I have a gun question,” he says. 

"Not even a hello? I'm not just a brilliant mind, you know," says Jason. "I've also got a smokin' physique."

“A person who can shoot someone between the eyes from 40 yards away with a 12-gauge shotgun, how good a shot is that person?”

Tim hears himself, he knows he sounds like he’s all business, and it isn’t exactly conducive to flirting. He has no idea how to flirt, though.

“Really good,” says Jason. “Or lucky. Not necessarily metahuman. Does that help?”

“Yeah,” says Tim. "Thanks." 

“Oracle said you went down the shore. I can't believe you didn't invite me. You know I love funnel cake."

"It's just Asbury Park," he says. “And I’m not at the beach, I’m working a case.”

"Wait, that's the gay part of the Jersey Shore. That's my favorite part of the Jersey Shore! _Timberly_. You’ve betrayed me. Would’ve loved to see you in your little swim trunks.”

That's not a normal thing a normal person says to a normal colleague, right? Jason's flirting, right? Right?

Tim swallows. “Maybe you can, um, come with me tomorrow?"

The words are out of his mouth now. He no longer has any control over them. He can only hope they flourish.

"No can do, kid. Roy's gonna try to fix our washing machine tonight, and I'm probably gonna have to stick around to pick up the pieces. You know how he gets."

  
  


Tim tries again a few weeks later. He doesn't like approaching anything without a detailed plan, but Steph manages to convince him not to make charts of several different conversation scenarios with branching dialogue possibilities in preparation for asking Jason out. Apparently it would be "neurotic" and "creepy." He thinks it's just being meticulous, but Steph generally knows better about these things.

She convinces him to volunteer to assist Jason on a stakeout at a mafia don's house, hoping the time spent in close quarters will set things in motion. They're deep in the suburbs, parked on a quiet residential street, sitting in a grayish early-90s Subaru with sticky upholstery and the pervasive odor of stale weed. There's a Ross Perot bumper sticker on the back.

"Where the hell'd you find this car, kid?" asks Jason, turning the crank to roll down the window. It doesn't work.

"Police auction," says Tim. "Needed something nondescript. Really don't want to be broadcasting our presence."

"Someone probably died in here. Of embarrassment."

Tim doesn't respond.

"Be honest with me," says Jason, "is this the shittiest car you've ever been in?"

"I — uh, I don't know," Tim says. He hasn't really thought about it. "Probably not."

"I'll be honest with you, I've definitely driven worse. My first car was an old Plymouth Reliant station wagon. The chassis was literally fuckin' disintegrated."

Tim grins. "The Reliant wasn't a _bad_ car. It just looked like a box. And is probably the dullest car of all time. Did it have fake wood panels?" 

"Aw, fuck, I shouldn't've said anything. Now you know about my past, you're not gonna think I'm cool anymore." 

Tim's first driving experience was in the Batmobile. He wonders when exactly Jason drove a car for the first time — it must've been his pre-Robin days, Bruce would never have had him learn to drive in a Reliant. But Tim's heard enough about Jason's early life to determine that he probably shouldn't ask too many questions about it, should wait for Jason to disclose whatever he's comfortable disclosing. He knows Jason's father was a two-bit criminal, his mother an addict, and that Jason spent far too long on the streets at far too young an age.

"I never thought you were cool," says Tim.

"Even when you were running around with your fancy little camera, takin' paparazzi shots of me and ol' Brucie?"

"Never," Tim replies with a grin. "Always thought you were pretty lame. Just wanted to document it."

"You're a little firecracker when you want to be, you know that? But I gotta be honest, I kinda like it when you're mean to me."

Tim really wishes he'd drawn up at least one branching dialogue tree for this particular situation.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, call it masochistic tendencies."

"Hey, Jason," Tim begins, "do you have any plans for — for later tonight?"

He tries not to hold his breath.

"Why, you worried? Listen, I'll do a quick sweep of the area, and if it looks good, we can all go home early. Sit tight, babybird."

"Oh — okay."

Jason opens the driver's side door and steps out, sneaking a cheeky wave back at Tim as he heads down the block.

The car radio turns on with a click.

"I don't want to listen to this shit anymore,” says Babs’ voice. “The Asbury thing, and now this, I’m — I'm signing off. I hope you two work through whatever it is you need to work through. I don't care. Oracle out.”

Tim presses his face into the dashboard and groans.

  


They're in Atlantic City with Steph and Cass, chasing after one of Black Mask's enforcers, a metahuman hitman known only as the Scourge. He appears in surveillance footage with a hefty frame and bleached highlights, so Jason, helpful as ever, starts referring to him as Guy Fieri.

They track him to an abandoned storage unit and burst through the door, ready for a fight.

"Say the thing, Cass!" Steph shouts.

"We shall take you to Flavortown," she recites impassively. Steph and Jason high-five each other.

Guy Fieri and his crew go down without too much trouble. Cass probably could've taken them all herself. Tim strongly suspects this is all a ploy on Steph's part for the group of them to have a vacation in Atlantic City, where she can further her matchmaking ambitions while getting to put a few cocktails on Bruce Wayne's scary black credit card. His suspicions are only verified when she suggests, loudly, that they all celebrate a job well done by going out for a drink. She knows a great place. There's a dress code, though, so wear something nice.

  


By “a plan,” Steph apparently means making their way to a casino nightclub called Royal Jelly. It's entirely too Atlantic City: there are go-go dancers, a mirrored ceiling, and a DJ booth pumping out an EDM remix of Bruce Springsteen's Born to Run. Steph disappears for a few minutes and comes back with a round of brightly colored tequila cocktails. Cass dances happily.

" _Drink, bitch_ ," Steph shouts at him.

Tim doesn't often drink alcohol. He usually follows Bruce's lead, drinking ginger ale from a champagne flute all night—creating the appearance of socially drinking, all while remaining sober, in case an emergency of the masked vigilante type happens to occur. He's not enough of an idiot to say no outright to Stephanie Brown, though, so he takes an obedient sip and nearly chokes. He loves Steph, but he's pretty sure she's ordered them a round of candy-flavored paint thinner.

Then Jason's throwing an arm around Tim's shoulders. "You look bored," he says, leaning in close.

"This isn't really my... thing," says Tim, gesturing vaguely around him. He tries to ignore Steph, now glaring daggers at him over Jason's shoulder and trying to signal in what appears to be semaphore.

"Yeah, figured as much. You probably need to go home to your charging dock."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Get it? 'Cause you're a robot."

Tim hooks a finger into one of Jason's belt loops, pulls him in so they're facing each other. "And you're an asshole," he says, eyes on Jason's lips.

He isn't drunk at all, despite Steph's best efforts, but the music is pulsing with a deep bass rhythm that Tim can feel in his chest and he's just _tired_ , so tired, of dancing around the subject. He kisses Jason, bites gently down on his bottom lip, and then Jason's other hand is warm and tentative and growing ever more confident on the small of his back, and Jason's licking slowly into his mouth. Steph fucking cheers, though it barely registers when Tim finally pulls away.

"You feelin' okay, Tim?" Jason's voice is soft, lower than usual.

"Let's get out of here," says Tim. He casts one more look at Steph, who mimes something absolutely obscene.

  


They're back in Tim's hotel room, and Tim is absolutely out of patience. He grabs at Jason's belt, fumbles with the buckle, tugs at it blindly in an attempt to get it off as soon as possible.

"You can't be that fuckin' desperate for it," Jason chides, gently grabbing his wrists, dropping another kiss on his forehead. He palms down the front of Tim's jeans and smiles when he presses his hand against Tim's clothed erection.

"Okay," he says. "Maybe you are."

He kisses Tim again, pops the button in his pants and walks him back until Tim's knees come up against the edge of the bed. Tim flops backwards, wriggles out of his jeans, lets Jason pull his briefs down and feels the cold air hit, feels Jason's gaze linger over him. His legs fall open, he's completely exposed, lets Jason get a good look. Tim shivers when Jason runs his fingers along his length, and Jason's grabbing the base of his dick and taking him into the wet heat of his mouth.

Tim feels like his central nervous system is being pulled out of his body. He's going to die. He whines, bucks up against Jason, who responds by holding him tighter, builds up a rhythm as he begins to bob his head. Something in the pit of Tim's stomach tightens; he reaches a hand down, threads his fingers through Jason's hair as the other man pulls back and swirls his tongue against the head of his erection. Tim looks down and it's a mistake.

Jason's eyes flick up to meet his, and Tim can hardly stand to look at him, at this beautiful man and his piercing eyes, hollowed cheeks, lips wrapped around his cock.

"Oh, fuck," Tim whispers. He brings his own fingers to his mouth and sucks, then reaches down behind himself, splays his legs wider, and whimpers when he pushes a finger inside himself. He can't get too deep, not at this angle, but the feeling of being penetrated, having something _inside_ , sets his body alight. He slides another finger in next to the first, savors the delicate stretching sensation, and moans again.

Jason's left arm is moving now; he's got one hand down his pants, he's touching himself. 

"I'm — Jason, wait," Tim manages, and that's all the warning Jason gets. Tim clenches around his own fingers, squeezes his eyes shut, and comes. A blanket feeling of contentment washes over him. He hardly notices it a few minutes later when Jason, still almost fully clothed, comes with a grunt, seed dripping across his lower belly.

"That was fun," says Jason, tucking himself away, refastening his belt. "Hope you think of me next time you got an itch to scratch."

He doesn't spend the night.

  


Jason has been texting him occasionally over the past few weeks, usually with photographs of expressionless cats with the caption _its you_. Despite how much Tim enjoys receiving these messages, he's also been ignoring them. After a full month of mostly agonizing and throwing himself into doing as much work as possible, though, he’s starting to feel like he’s reaching a breaking point in terms of pathological avoidance.

Tonight, draws himself a bath and lays there and stares at his phone, hating himself. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He considers inviting Jason over to help him on a case, or to watch a movie, or sit around and discuss the fucking singularity. But by now, he's also realized he isn’t the best at dropping social cues, and Jason isn’t exactly great at picking them up.

_Come over_ , he types. _Wayne Tower 43rd floor_. No pretenses. Jason responds with a _Be there in 10_ , and it’s done.

And then he's drying himself off and answering the door in a towel, and then Jason's in his leather jacket, smelling of old smoke and night air and leaning against the doorframe with his motorcycle helmet under one arm, and Tim is doomed. 

"Hey, kid," says Jason, closing the door behind him. "Wanna fuck?"

Tim can't believe he's got a crush on this guy. He reaches up, hooks two fingers in the collar of Jason's shirt, and drags him down into a savage kiss. Jason's hands find their place around his hips, lets his towel drop. 

"Look at you," Jason murmurs, gaze roving up and down Tim's naked form. "Not bad — for a little nerd who spends all day behind a computer screen."

"I could kick your ass," Tim says breathlessly. "Easy."

"Yeah?" Jason takes a step in, takes off his jacket, loses the shirt, and then Tim can't help but think about how _strong_ Jason is, how big and imposing and how he fights with the sort of brutality he couldn't ever hope to match. It's not his style, Tim knows; he thinks he probably _could_ kick Jason's ass if he had enough time to plan and prepare for it — but his victory wouldn't come from raw physicality, which Jason seems to possess in spades. He's tall, almost as tall as Bruce, and he's pushing Tim back up against the kitchen counter and leaning in again, pressing their lips together. Jason snakes a hand behind Tim, trails a finger around his hole, teasing. Tim groans.

"But maybe later," he says. "I think, right now, maybe you should fuck me."

"Can't say I haven't thought about it," Jason replies.

  


Then Tim gets shot in the arm.

He's barely in control of himself, doesn't remember how the fight ended or how he wound up in one of Jason's ratty safehouses, drunk on adrenaline and dopamine and a few sips of the cheap vodka Jason had poured him before he'd set to work, removing the bullet from Tim's shoulder and sewing him up. They're sitting in the kitchen underneath flickering fluorescent lights, and the air is thick with the smell of his own blood, but Tim can see the beginnings of a sunrise over the horizon. Jason's face is so close to his, brow furrowed in concentration as he soaks some cotton wool in more vodka and carefully dabs Tim's stitched-up wound. It stings. Tim hisses, feels like his heart is suspended by a wire.

It happens before he has a chance to reconsider.

"What are you doing?” he asks.

"Sorry. I know I'm not much of a medic."

"I don't mean that," says Tim. "I mean, I've been trying to ask you out, like on a date, and I haven't gotten a clear answer from you, and if you don't want to go out with me, I understand, and I'll stop bothering you. I just need a yes-or-no answer. Please."

Jason gives him an incredulous look.

"You've been... trying to ask me out?"

Tim sighs. "Yes?"

" _Why?_ "

"I... like you," Tim manages. He's bad at this. He doesn't like being bad at things, but he's extremely bad at this in particular. He has trouble saying what he means, and he's abysmal at openly expressing emotions, especially when they're ones that make him feel vulnerable. It's probably the result of being partially raised by Bruce Wayne. But the psychoanalysis can happen later, Tim decides. Not right now.

"Listen, Tim," says Jason, "I know what I am. I know I'm a decent lay, but I'm not much good for much more than that."

"You're wrong, I — I just wanted to — "

"You wanna have a relationship with me? Like a real one? You know I'm a piece of shit, right?"

Tim should probably say something like _no, Jason, you're not a piece of shit_ , but he doesn't.

"Yeah, I know," he says. "I still want to... have a relationship with you."

"Okay," says Jason. "I would — I would also like that. But, uh, are you sure? You're like, a... a beautiful fuckin' princeling, and I'm like, straight-up a sewage person."

Tim blinks. "What did you just call me?"

"Um, so, uh, are we dating?"

"I think we'd have to actually go out on a date first," says Tim. "And then the gerund form 'dating' would begin to apply."

  



End file.
